Red Is My Favorite Color
by KameradKorea
Summary: When the popular Alfred Jones goes missing, everyone blames 'Communist' Ivan Braginsky. In order to prove his innocence and save Alfred, Ivan must disappear into a world of mystery, international crime, and revenge... Multiple pairings.
1. In The Beginning

A/N: Hi, guys, KameradKorea here. This actually started out as a one-shot and then it turned into... this. Enjoy?

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><p><strong>In The Beginning<strong>

_"Russian Roulette is not the same without a gun."_

Before I can tell you about the disastrous event that took place in early December of my eleventh school year, I should probably start simple.

I'll start by introducing my... friends.

Let me tell you that high school is divided into groups. Especially my school. And most certainly during lunch. We are a nation - err, school - divided.

Question: Who do I sit with, you ask?

Answer: The 'Communists.'

Really, though, I'm not a Communist. I'm Russian. And my name is Ivan Braginsky. So with my accent, people just assume, I guess. Take, for example, Alfred Jones. He's really loud and annoying and eats a lot of McDonald's, so people just _assume _he's American. Oh, wait a second...

Anyway, the normal Communist Table consists of six people (unfortunately).

1) Me.

2) Katyusha Braginskaya, who is always making tearful speeches about how she loves us and how we cannot be defined by society. She's a joy to deal with alright. I also have to share the same last name as her, which is slightly frustrating. Well, not to English-speakers, I suppose. But to Russians and Ukrainians, as we are - yes.

3) Natalia Arlovskaya, who has been madly in love with me since she moved to the United States (and whom I shall avoid at any cost, even death).

4) Toris Laurinaitis, who has been madly in love with _Natalia_ since she moved to the United States. I am sensing a love triangle.

5) Eduard von Bock, who swears to this day that I broke his computer. I blame Toris.

6) Raivis Galante, who is about five feet shorter than a normal person. He is always stuttering. He cannot look me in the eyes.

Oh, and on occasion:

7) Gilbert Beilschmidt, who very rarely leaves the German-speaking section of the cafeteria to come over and announce how amazing he is. Usually with an exceedingly noisy, "I don't know if you Russians missed it, but I'm extremely awesome! And you are not!" Then he runs off and eats wurst and Nutella.

I can find several things wrong with this sentence. Gilbert is not awesome. We are not all Russians. And remember this: we do not miss _anything._

Okay, I'll move on. So, let me start by saying we are very susceptible to hatred. Someone once left a note for us that said BETTER DEAD THAN RED. Katyusha cried. Natalia got suspended for three days for standing on a chair and announcing to the cafeteria that she was going to find out who wrote the note and kill them.

We're some pretty messed up people.

Maybe that's why investigations and rumors targeted us.

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><p>It's a normal Friday, albeit a very bitter, cold December one. Winter break is approaching quickly, which means our final exams are imminent. Natalia arrives at the table with her lunch tray, grinning like the disturbed soul she is. "Ivan, guess what?"<p>

I do not care. I take out my phone and ignore her completely.

This never stops her. She says, "Someone invited me to a party."

I snort. "Your lies amuse me."

"I'm not lying."

"No one would invite you to a party."

"Gilbert Beilschmidt did."

I look up from my LCD screen, truly surprised. "What? Why?"

Katyusha arrives next, smiling. "What are you talking about?"

"Natalia's going to a party, apparently." I shake my head and return to my phone. Katyusha claps her hands. "Yes, Natty! A party? Oh, you're so adorable! You're growing up! This is-"

"Shut up. I hate you. _Don't_ call me Natty," Natalia snaps.

Tears form in Katyusha's eyes. Raivis arrives and halfheartedly comforts her. I roll my eyes while Natalia curses under her breath.

I hate this. I hate these people. Sometimes I wish I were from a different country so I could sit at another table. Maybe if I worked on my accent for a few months, I could pass as one of those Scandinavian coffee-addicts or something.

"Ivan," Natalia says, speaking loudly over Katyusha's sobbing, "the point is - you're invited, too."

I shake my head. "Like I want to go to one of Beilschmidt's stupid parties. I hate Gilbert."

"Yeah, well, it'd get you some points on the popularity scale, which you could kind of use," Eduard says. I glare at him and he backpedals. "I mean, uh..."

"Don't!" Katyusha exclaims through her tears. "You are more than popularity - your social status should not define who you are!"

Natalia kicks Katyusha in the leg and she winces. At least she shuts up. It's about time.

"Anyway," Natalia says to me, "do you think you want to come?"

"Well, if you're going to be there, no," I reply. I honestly don't know why my comments don't scare Natalia off. My goal - yes, it's mean - but my goal is to one day hurt her feelings so much that she leaves me alone forever. It's harder than you'd think.

Natalia seems unfazed. "You know Gilbert's address, right? You have it all?"

"What time are you going, Natalia?" Toris asks.

Natalia glares at him. "You are not invited. If you show up, I will _cut_ you."

Two funny things about my darling Ms. Arlovskaya - she has a really thick Belarusian accent, but she has a knack for saying 'cut' like 'cuuuht' with this weird Southern lilt. And she's just as mean to Toris as I am to her.

"S-s-sorry!" Toris exclaims.

"I'm not going," I say. "Final. I have things to do."

Raivis laughs nervously. "L-like what? Figuring out how to get away with murder?"

Now here's something about Raivis: he's really fun to scare. And it's really _easy. _

I smile. "Now, Raivis, what makes you think I haven't already done that?"

I see his jaw drop, and I stand up, starting to walk to my next class. Natalia tells me to wait; Katyusha says, "You were joking, right?!"

Oh, how I wish our school wasn't so divided! How I wish I were someone else!

As I walk to the cafeteria exit, I collide with someone. I apologize, but there doesn't seem to be anyone there.

I shrug and take off down the hallway, but I swear I can feel someone watching me.

Call it instinct, but I feel something bad is approaching, much in the way that dogs can sense a storm on the way...


	2. Natural Theory

A/N: Surprise - I'm back for chapter two! Enjoy and maybe review? Aw, whatever, as long as you like it! Also, I set a genre - drama. This'll be a dramatic story (that will probably fit into a lot of other categories, too)! But if you like drama, action, etc., read on!

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><p><strong>Natural Theory<strong>

I know I just told you that our school is a school divided.

But not today.

Mondays are not generally accepted by society - I mean, they're tiring, everyone's cranky, it's just a bad situation. But this Monday is incomparably worse than most.

Alfred Jones is gone.

Is he dead? I don't know; no one knows.

The party Natalia was talking about last week - Gilbert Beilschmidt's party... okay, hold on.

Alfred Jones and Gilbert Beilschmidt are possibly two of the most popular guys in the junior class. They've always been. It's Alfred and Gilbert and Mathias Køhler. The popular kids, all from different groups. So naturally, Alfred made Gilbert's guest list.

More than twenty people have stepped up and said that they saw Alfred at Gilbert's party on Friday. I believe them. We all do. This isn't the issue. Of course Alfred was at that party.

But no one knows where he went afterward.

Also, Gilbert Beilschmidt is in a ton of trouble - what with having alcohol at his party and all. Normally no one would know about this, but since Alfred went missing, a few people said they had seen him drinking at the party. And where else would he have gotten the drinks? We are right, of course, and Gilbert deserves this.

Gilbert isn't at school today. But Mathias is, and he's beside himself with worry, telling anyone who will listen that this is terrible, so very _forfærdelig, _as he says.

Stupid Dane. Lamenting is not going to help.

Though, mass hysteria is what I was talking about, yes? The teachers are keeping tabs on everyone. They think we're responsible, which is ridiculous. Even if one of us offed a classmate, why would anyone kill or kidnap _Alfred? _

Right now, the majority of the school is still trying to gather information, make accusations, decide what's happening.

We're supposed to be in Study Hall. No one is silent.

I'll update you on information once I know more.

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><p>I'm in the middle of reading a section in my chemistry textbook when Natalia interrupts me. Normally I'd tell her to screw off, but today, I want to talk to her. She went to Gilbert's party, after all, and she might know something.<p>

"So."

Natalia sits down next to me. The chemistry teacher is at her desk. She told us today could be a free period. Everyone is discussing Alfred.

"I saw Alfred," she says. "I saw him after the party, too."

"Why didn't you tell the police?"

She looks puzzled. "I _did." _

"What was he doing, then?" I ask, shutting my textbook and shoving it into my bag.

"Have you ever been to the Beilschmidt's house?"

I think back. Gilbert and I were kind of friends when we were younger, but as time passed, we learned to hate each other. "Yes."

She nods. "Right. So you know how they have one of those backyards that leads into the woods? If you travel a few hundred feet through the trees and such, there's this steep drop - this cliff - that plummets to a river."

"Right," I say. "I know."

Natalia taps her pen against the desk. "Alright. I saw Alfred stumbling through the woods as I left. He was drunk and it was dark, so isn't it a possibility that he might have fallen down the drop and died?"

"Certainly."

"Well, I reported all this to the police."

"Huh. What did they say?"

She shrugs. "They didn't tell me. I wonder if they searched that area."

A dreadful thought hits me. "What if he fell into the river?"

_"Into _it?" Natalia questions, raising an eyebrow.

"Couldn't the water have swept his body away?"

She kind of smiles. "Oh, so you're one of those Natural Theory guys."

"What Natural Theory guys?" I grunt, looking at her.

"You haven't been hearing the rumors? It's not even lunchtime and the school has already divided into three groups. The Natural Theory people believe what you just said - that Alfred fell down the river and either drowned or was swept away. Other people think someone killed him. And even more believe that Alfred is still alive somewhere, and that he got kidnapped or lost or something." Natalia seems to think about this. "I don't know."

I sigh. "I guess we'll find out sooner or later."

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><p>When I show up for lunch, Katyusha is the only one at the table. She's sitting in her normal spot, eating an apple and reading a college application guide. I remember that she is a twelfth grader, a senior, and next year, she'll be gone. I must admit, I'll miss her crying and her comforting presence.<p>

"Where is everyone?" I ask, sitting down.

She looks up. "Everyone else - they're angry with each other. They're arguing over what happened to Alfred. What do you think?"

I try to respond with thought. This is one of those tricky questions, like asking someone's religion or political party, because you don't want to offend them if you have different beliefs. "I don't know," I finally say. "It definitely seems possible that Alfred could have fallen down the river in the Beilschmidt's yard."

"I was hoping you'd say that." She bookmarks her page and closes the college application book. "That's what Raivis thinks, too. Toris insists that he's still alive, wandering around somewhere. Eduard says he was murdered." Katyusha shudders. "It's so terrible, Ivan! Terrible!"

"Stop that," I say. "You sound like Mathias. Did you go to Gilbert's party?"

"No. But why didn't you? Why didn't you take up Natalia's offer?"

I tear open a bag of dried fruit. "How do you I know I didn't go?"

"Ah, nevermind!" Katyusha exclaims, her eyes wide. "Just forget it. I'm assuming you didn't go."

"Right..." I mutter. "You're acting strangely. Did you-"

But then the strangest things happens. Alfred walks right into the cafeteria and sits down at our table next to Katyusha, his finger marking his spot in some novel that appears to be French. This is bizarre enough by itself - I'd never thought Alfred worldly enough to manage to learn two languages - but then Alfred greets Katyusha and asks how she's doing. She smiles.

"Hi, Matthew. I'm fine."

It makes sense. That isn't Alfred. It's Matthew Williams. Alfred and Matthew aren't related, but they look like identical twins. You can only tell the difference when they open their mouths - Matthew is quiet, soft-spoken, nearly invisible; Alfred is as noisy and discordant as Gilbert combined with a herd of elephants. And while Alfred's accent is pure American with high usage of the words 'dude' and 'totally,' Matthew has this pleasant French-Canadian tone and says "Eh?" a lot.

I see Matthew nearly every day.

Yet today, his striking similarities to Alfred are too much. I take out my own book - a Russian study on Greek Mythology - and pretend to read it while Matthew and Katyusha discuss what kind of flowers they will bring to Alfred's funeral.


	3. Hope and Death

A/N: Thank you all for your kind words! I hope you enjoy this next chapter; feel free to request pairings, too. If I can, I'll _try_ to work them in.

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><p><strong>Hope and Death<strong>

I called and told my older sister, Anya, who is off in college, what's been happening. She just said she remembers Alfred and hopes he is found soon. She also said that she's coming home to visit for Christmas. I'm glad, but I hope this situation gets sorted out before she gets here.

On Tuesday, things are much the same, except people are now saying that police found Alfred's footprints near the drop, but the prints doubled back towards Gilbert's house and disappeared once the ground got clearer and harder. So those Natural Theory guys - I suppose they aren't so right. I feel slightly bad for Gilbert's younger brother, Ludwig - he must be going through a lot, dealing with all these investigations near his house; watching his brother receive punishments for alcohol possession. Oh well. Isn't me.

Before the first bell rings Wednesday morning, I am opening my locker to empty my backpack and get my notebooks when something small and rectangular comes toppling out, nearly hitting me. I frown. It must have been leaning against the closed door, from the inside, I mean.

I pick it up and am confused at first. It's a phone - the screen is shattered. The case has a picture of the American flag on it. (You know, the one teachers make me pledge my allegiance to every morning, even though I would move back to Russia in less than a heartbeat?)

I hold it in my hand for a moment, until someone says, "Ivan, what have you done?" I do not know who said it, only that now everyone is staring, pointing, whispering.

Mathias, who has been standing nearby, reading a poster on the wall, stares at my hand. "Drop it," he whispers warningly, like I'm a dog. "Ivan, that's - Alfred's phone-"

These words register slowly, and Alfred's phone slips from my grip, falling to the floor with another cracking noise.

"What was that doing in your locker?" Mathias exclaims, eyes wide with horror.

"I don't know - it wasn't - I never put it there..." My mind is a whirl. I've certainly never used Alfred's phone, I can promise you. Much less taken it.

I hear someone say, "Ivan Braginsky murdered Alfred."

This is just the beginning, I know.

The beginning of the end.

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><p>It is terrible. Someone told the principal - of course - and I had to explain how Alfred's phone got in my locker. The only thing I said was, "I don't know," and while the principal looked skeptical, a few of the police officers must've believed me. They confiscated the phone. Fine. Fine. Whatever proves that I am innocent.<p>

Anyway, while I'm not _not _a suspect, I'm not as high on their hit list as I thought I'd be.

But the rumors - oh, _the rumors. _

While some people are sticking with their original ideas (thanks), here are the newest theories of what has happened to Alfred:

1) I found a drunk Alfred at Gilbert's party and murdered him, hiding the body somewhere in the woods.

2) I kidnapped Alfred and he is somewhere far away.

3) I hired a hit-man to do away with everyone's favorite American.

Yet, if people would actually think - these do not track at all. The first theory cannot be correct because I was not at Gilbert's party. And while my logic has loopholes you could drive a car through, people should realize that three isn't possible because even if I _did_ want Alfred dead, where would I be able to find and afford a _hit-man?_

Come on.

When I get to lunch, I am completely expecting the regular - smiling Ukrainian, lovesick Belarusian, dorky Baltic kids.

But there's no one there, not even Katyusha with her silly college application book. Just a piece of folded paper left in my usual seat. I pick it up and unfold it.

_Sorry, Ivan. It doesn't look good to be associated with certain people._

No signature. Nothing else. I recognize Eduard's handwriting, but did the rest of the table write this together? I know I said I hate those people - and I do. I really do. But it kind of hurts to get this note right now. It's kind of insulting. Wouldn't they know that I would never do something like kill someone?

Go ahead. Say you see the irony in things. Maybe I shouldn't have made those jokes to Raivis the other day. Maybe there are lots of things I probably shouldn't have done.

Hey, here's an idea - how about you go list all those things while _I_ go figure out how to prove that I'm not guilty of murder?

Oh. It isn't so fun now, is it?

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><p>My mother does not look happy.<p>

"What is it?" I ask, setting down my stuff and closing the door. It started snowing about an hour before school got out, but it's not sticking to the ground.

"I got a call from your school, Ivan," she says, crossing her arms. "I heard all about Alfred Jones and the cell phone."

"I didn't do anything," I say automatically and truthfully. "It wasn't me. I don't know how it got in my locker. But it wasn't me."

She scowls. "Look me in the eyes and tell me you didn't lay a finger on that boy."

"I'm swear to God that I didn't kill or kidnap or injure Alfred Jones," I say, staring into her violet eyes. I got my eyes from my mother. I got everything, really - her light hair, her striking eyes, her ability to terrify nearly anyone. My father was, of course, very different - dark hair, brown eyes, kindly to a fault.

She nods, her mouth pressed into a thin line, and walks out of the room silently.

If my father were here, he would believe me.

If my father were here, he would never even think it was my fault.

But he died when I was fourteen, in a terrible car accident that wasn't his fault.

My heart goes out to Mr. and Mrs. Jones. I wonder if losing a kid is better or worse than losing a parent. This may be just me, but I would rather have a dead child than a missing child. When someone is missing, you always have that hope that they might still be out there, alive. Hope is exhausting.

It is better, I think, to be dead. To be dead and certain.


End file.
